Sword and Sorcery
by Ne'er-Do-Well
Summary: After the fall of his emperor and his country, Archmage Vincent is taken to the kingdom of the conquerors. It seems the king has plans for him, but Vincent's an angry wizard bent on revenge and he intends on giving King Sephiroth hell. Sephiroth/Vincent.
1. Defeat

_Disclaimer: The author does not own Sephiroth, Vincent Valentine, or any other Final Fantasy VII character that might make an appearance._

_Lots of FF1/FF2 makes me want to write fantasy. I just wanted to write about some wizards dammit, but there is an actual plot (I think). Borrowing the title from the fantasy genre because I couldn't think of one -is lame-_

**_Story notes:_**

_"Italic speech" = speaking in a regional language (Bravokii, Macarian, etc.)_

"Non-italic speech" _= speaking in the common tongue (which most people can understand)__  
_

* * *

**Chapter 1: Defeat**

—

The night sky was filled with light and the air hummed with the sounds of violence. Through the clouds, dark, massive airships streamed and from each of them a rain of destruction and fire poured. The capital was burning. Even from the high tower Vincent could see the bodies of citizens littering the stone-paved streets, roofs of shops and houses collapsing on themselves, and soldiers clothed in foreign armor marching through the blazing streets.

_"More ships approaching from the east!"_

Vincent ripped his eyes from the terrible sight of the fallen city to search the sky. His heart sank as he spotted the newest fleet of heavily armored battleships flying across the open field at the capital's border. _"All shift east!"_ He yelled to the others on the tower. _"Let the other towers handle the city!"_

The casters complied immediately, all turning east, hands shimmering with the light of their spellcasting. Vincent narrowed his eyes at the first row of aircraft and lifted a hand. The stormy clouds shifted and writhed, eagerly awaiting his command. He brought his fingers downward in a quick, easy movement and the sky followed. Great forks of lightning split the turbulent heavens and ripped through a number the airships. A malicious smile curled Vincent's lips as he watched the flaming wreckage of each targeted enemy craft fall.

Around him the other mages were casting potent fire and ice spells and many more airships were falling victim to their destructive energies. As pleased as he was with their spellcasting, Vincent could not help but notice how their numbers had dwindled. For every active caster there were two or three unconscious and spent on the tiled floor. They had long since run out of ethers and every hour that passed left fewer mages standing. The other towers were no doubt suffering from similar losses and on the ground the kingdom's warriors had done little to stop the enemy soldiers from destroying the city. Even Vincent felt worn from the battle. His arms and robes were scratched and torn from the airships' flying shrapnel and his skin burned from his own reckless casting and close encounters with enemy bombs. The longer the conflict waged, the more plain it became that the fight would not end in a victory for Macaria.

The wizard dragged his pale hands up through the heavy air and with the movement an enormous, floating wall of fire sprouted from nothingness to halt the incoming ships. It wasn't much against the seemingly unending fleet, but it would provide some respite for his mages. And if nothing else, the destruction of the airships flying into the wall in surprise made him feel a little better.

Feet were pounding up the stairs. _"Archmage! Archmage!"_

Vincent turned and watched the foot soldier pant and gasp, patiently waiting for him to catch his breath. _"Yes?"_

The soldier looked at him with tired eyes. His young face was streaked with dust, blood, and sweat. Vincent felt anger for the attacking force rise within him once more. _"Archmage, they have breached the castle."_ The youth swallowed thickly. _"They cut through our forces like a scythe through wheat, sir. I am not sure how much more we can take..."_

_"They make for the emperor,"_ the dark-haired wizard said, alarmed. _"I will go there myself."_

The soldier opened his mouth to reply, but Vincent's surroundings faded before he could hear the young man's response. He was already running before the teleportation spell ended. The walls and rooms of the castle came into existence around him as Vincent raced through the familiar hallways, noting with displeasure the bodies lying prone on the elegant carpet. He teleported to the next floor mid-step. More corpses. And more on the next. Desperately, Vincent sent himself through reality and to the throne room.

_"No..."_ He whispered, eyes locked on the room's open doors. He ran inside without hesitation and found a gathering of armored warriors. Vincent pushed past them hurriedly, chest heavy with dread and eyes barely registering their foreign clothing.

In the center of the crowd was a lone, broken corpse. Though his face was not visible, Vincent could easily recognize the ornate robe and headdress of his emperor. Vincent stared at the body in horror and sank to his knees next to the corpse. He clutched the crimson robes of the emperor in his fingers helplessly. _Now_, he thought despairingly. _Now the battle has truly been lost_.

The soldiers looked at each other, lifting their weapons uncertainly. Should they attack the mourning man? Certainly there would be no point since they had already won. They turned toward their leader expectantly, but he gave them no signal to attack. He simply stood and watched the dark-haired wizard quietly, so the soldiers followed suit.

One of the armored men found his eyes drawn to the sorcerer's robes and felt the need to inform the others of his observations. _"Look at his robes,"_ he said softly in their native Bravokii. _"White trimmed with red."_

_"Ah, he must be a white mage then,"_ replied another soldier. Red and white were the traditional healer colors in Bravok, though the wizard before them lacked the familiar red triangles of the white mage's garb.

On the other side of their circle another man chuckled. _"He ought to know he won't be able to revive his ruler then. His soul has already moved on."_

_"White mage... and we thought he might be a threat,"_ said a fourth said in amusement. The warriors around him laughed softly.

The hand Vincent clutched his emperor's robes with curled into a fist. Were they laughing at him? Mocking him and his helplessness? He trembled with barely restrained fury. The future of Macaria was bleak and anything he did now would be almost pointless, but his emperor, his _country_, deserved some amount of vengeance.

The warriors didn't even have time to lift their swords before an incredibly large beam of pure light and heat energy burst from Vincent's hands and completely decimated a significant portion of their group. Vincent stared directly at the soldier who had first laughed and lifted his empty hand. With a flex of Vincent's fingers the man exploded, raining his companions with blood, charred flesh, and bits of his armor. He cast wildly, curses flying from his lips as devastating magic flowed from his fingers. Bodies were falling around him, voices were crying out in alarm, and Vincent's eyes shined as he took in the carnage he wrought. He grinned.

A long blade sliced through the air to his left and Vincent stepped to the right to put some space between himself and his attacker. It almost seemed as if the swordsman had missed on purpose, perhaps to warn him. Vincent narrowed his eyes and sought his mysterious foe. Warn _him_? _He _was the one doing the slaughtering.

Crimson eyes finally landed on a tall man with a sword held easily in his left hand. The warrior was similar to the others, there was nothing on his armor to set him apart from the other fighters save perhaps the heavy fur-trimmed cloak draped across his shoulders. Somehow, however, Vincent knew this silver-haired, curiously cat-eyed man was their leader. He could see it in the man's confident stance and the respect in the eyes of the remaining soldiers. The warriors even backed away to give the pale-haired man and Vincent space.

Vincent smiled. Perfect. Just what he wanted, a showdown with the leader of the intruders; the man who had killed Vincent's emperor and destroyed his kingdom. Vincent cut through the air with his right hand and flames flew in an arc from his body. The swordsman's green eyes flashed as he the blade of his sword slashed at the flames and knocked them away, rendering them useless. Vincent watched the flames flutter and die, mildly impressed. Undaunted, he effortlessly shifted stance and summoned the power of ice. The silver-haired man jumped just as Vincent's stalagmite of ice shot up from the floor. As the warrior let gravity pull him back down, his long sword whistled through the air, its sharp tip trained on the archmage's chest. Vincent's crimson eyes widened in surprise and he transported himself to the far side of the throne room to avoid the swordsman's attack.

_He's pretty good_, Vincent mused, disgruntled. He frowned as he watched the other man land gracefully. He was good and Vincent was casting carelessly. The wizard tried to calm himself. Letting his emotions control him was good if he wanted power, but not if he wanted control, which was what he needed if he wanted to win this fi—

_Where did he go?_ Vincent blinked in disbelief. The green-eyed warrior had been standing right there then he had simply vanished.

There was a high whistle behind him and Vincent twisted just in time to have the shining blade slide past him harmlessly, but his footing failed him and he tumbled to the carpeted floor. In an instant the cat-eyed man had Vincent pinned and the wizard's wrists gripped in his large right hand. Red eyes narrowed at the smirk he saw on the man's pale face. _He's certainly cocky, isn't he? _Vincent opened his mouth to tell the arrogant man just what was on his mind, but found his voice suddenly stuck in his throat. The spellcaster growled silently, he could swear those bright eyes were laughing at him.

"Looks like we won't have to worry about any more of those annoying spells," the swordsman said in the common tongue. His voice was deep and sensual, but the arrogance in his voice only made Vincent glare at him harder.

Vincent's red eyes spotted an ornamented wall torch behind the shining head. So the warrior thought disabling his hands and his voice would keep him from casting spells? Now that was just an insult. He willed the torch's flame to grow and it writhed and dance and bent to his will.

The wizard smiled prettily at the silver-haired warrior and the man narrowed his eyes suspiciously before chancing a brief glance behind him. The flame exploded from the torch and roared over the pair on the ground. The tall swordsman almost didn't have time to cast a magic barrier around them but he did, just barely saving his beloved hair from the hungry flames. He turned back to the pinned archmage with an angry growl, noting with displeasure the man's narrow shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He brought the butt of his sword's hilt against the dark-haired man's temple violently. The fire spell died as the wizard faded from consciousness and the green-eyed warrior glared at the innocently flickering flames dancing in their torch.

_"Sephiroth!"_

_"Your Majesty!"_

Sephiroth turned to see his soldiers running toward him and he rose to his feet so that he could greet them with at least some dignity. He glanced thoughtfully at the unconscious mage at his feet.

_"Your Majesty, are you alright?"_ one of the fighters said, voice muffled by his helmet.

Sephiroth nodded and replied, _"I'm fine."_ A smile twitched the edges of his lips and he laughed. _"He's rather good isn't he?"_ he said, gesturing towards the dark-haired Macarian wizard. _"I didn't expected that last attack."_

The soldiers stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Sephiroth just chuckled quietly, as if sharing a private joke with himself.

_"Should we, uh, kill him, sire?"_ one of the more heavily armored soldiers asked uncertainly.

_"No, that won't be necessary. Victory has already been achieved after all."_ Sephiroth paused. _"In fact, take him with us."_

_"W-what?"_ The other warriors were in similar states of shock. Sephiroth arched an eyebrow as they began to mutter amongst themselves.

_"You heard me. We're taking him with us back to Bravok,"_ the silver-haired king said coolly. The soldiers immediately fell silent as Sephiroth shifted back into his usual personality. _"Or do you have a problem with my decision?"_

_"No, sire."_

He gave them a chilling smile. _"Good. Now pick him up and bring him with us."_ Sephiroth dismissed his sword and walked across the room. He stopped suddenly at the door and turned back to his remaining soldiers. _"Oh, and tie him up too. I get the feeling he won't be happy when he wakes up."_ He smiled slightly and with that, left them to deal with the sleeping wizard.


	2. Trava

_Disclaimer: Author owns nothing but ideas._

_I'll say what I said in the note of my other story: thank you and I'm sorry. Such an overwhelmingly positive response for this story, but are any of you guys still alive? Hehe. (shouldn't we be asking you that? I hear you say). Thank you for the PMs and the reviews! Reading them always gives me a nice kick in the butt when I'm lacking inspiration._

_The longest thing I've ever written right here. Seriously. I don't think I've ever even written an essay this long. Give me some feedback if you remember to by the end, haha. Love it, hate it, too long, too short, not enough pr0nz, whatever. Tell me you totally didn't see that ending coming__ (even though we'll both know you're lying) __just to make me feel better. It probably won't effect the story too much (I'm the one telling the story to you guys after all!), but I love hearing what you have to say. And you never know; nothing's set in stone._

_Oh, and to clarify: no, Vincent isn't a white mage. He just happened to be wearing white mage colors at the time, so they assumed he was. Also from here on out, _"Regular speech" _is speech in __the common tongue (the language most people can understand no matter where they're from) and "Italic speech" is speech in a nation/culture language, like Bravokii or Macarian. And the rating's been bumped up. Thought I ought to do it now rather than later.  
_

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**Chapter 2: Trava**

—

When he finally managed to pull away from the tranquil darkness of unconsciousness, he saw chocobos.

On top of those chocobos, he saw soldiers.

And around them both he saw gray. Rough, gray walls of jagged rock that reached far into the cloud-filled sky above.

He looked down. He was on a chocobo as well, traveling with the soldiers on a narrow mountain path to only the gods knew where.

It was quiet traveling; soundless, save for the thudding of heavy, taloned feet against hard-packed dirt and the cold wind whipping through the air above. Occasionally a rock, fallen from the mountain wall or disturbed by scuffling feet, would roll across the pass; interrupting the relative silence with light tapping noises as it traveled with the band of warriors a short distance before ending its journey moments later.

Crimson eyes gazed wistfully at the sky, watching the large snowy clouds pass over leisurely. The sun was shining brightly somewhere behind the towering mountains, but it was chilly. He noted with disappointment that he had been stripped of his heavy outer robes and, on a lesser note, his weapons and armor. With a regretful sigh he fiddled with the sleeves of his flimsy undergarments. What he wouldn't do for a fire spell...

Oh wait.

He could cast those, couldn't he?

The mage pulled energy in and let it flow to his hands with practiced ease, then waited for the familiar warmth of the element fire to build and manifest.

The action of casting the spell was comforting in its familiarity and brought to mind fond memories of his time as an apprentice. After months of practicing channeling his energy and going through the same tedious preliminary spell-casting exercises over and over, his master had finally deemed him ready to learn his first true spell. He had been so excited to see the tiny conjured flame cupped in his hands he had burned himself on it. His concentration had faltered in the presence of pain and the flame had flickered out of existence only a few moments after being summoned, but he could still remember the intense satisfaction he had felt seeing the powerful element answer to the call of his will. That had been many years ago and since then he had learned of innumerable ways to use the fierce element and had summoned the power of fire to his aid countless times.

So, needless to say, when the power of fire did not come to him, Vincent was just a little surprised.

He stared at his hands just to make sure that they were indeed empty. No pleasantly flickering flames, not even the slightest hint of light. His fingers were still numb and blue so he knew the temperature hadn't changed. His eyes fell to his wrists. He cocked his head and blinked.

Well, those were new, weren't they?

He brought his cold, skinny arms up to his face to inspect his new bracelets further. Or at least he tried to, only to discover that his arms had been tied to his saddle. Well, he supposed he could see them well enough from where he was anyway. They were dull and made of thin, pounded metal; wide bands that looped around his wrists tightly, but not so tightly that it was uncomfortable. There were no visible indications as to how they opened, their shine-less surfaces sported no breaks nor hinges for removal. Carved into the unpolished metal were rows of tiny characters. Runes, he supposed. Nothing he could make any real sense of, though there were a few familiar characters. Probably the result of a common root language between Macarian and whatever this mystery language was.

Though he could not decipher the meaning of the runes, he could at least make a guess about their function. Runes were a common sight on enchanted items regardless of their country of origin. Often such items were used to enhance a person's innate abilities, such as magical potential, and could increase the power of their spells or decrease the amount of energy their spells drained from them. Enchanting went much deeper than that, however, and there was a wide range of possible enchantments. Some items could even hinder the person wearing them, sapping away their strength or forcibly containing their magic to prevent them from using it...

Vincent stared hard at the metal bracelets as he finished this thought. His mind slowly drawing the line from the dot of his newly discovered inability to use magic to the dot of the sudden appearance of the bewitched bands on his wrists.

And then realization hit like a fork of conjured lightning. All the nonsense and momentary stupidity the wake from sleep had brought on disappeared and his sluggish mind was sharp once more.

He quickly took in his surroundings a second time. He didn't know these soldiers, though the crest on their armor was familiar enough. He had seen it a great many times over the past three years and after recent events, it would probably be burned into his memory for the rest of his life. Bravokian.

Mountains. Well, they weren't in Macaria anymore. Judging from the plunging temperature he would guess they had traveled north and were somewhere in the mountain range Trava that had at one time served as a border around Bravok. Once, the enormous mountain range had encircled the Kingdom of Bravok and had marked the limit of her territory to the south and to the east. Vincent's eyes narrowed bitterly at the mountain's barren rock face. She had long since outgrown the natural borders Gaia had provided her with.

Voices drew him out of his thoughts. The small sub-party of soldiers that was keeping him company, a group of five who were probably there to monitor him, were looking at him now, exchanging hushed words and curious glances.

Vincent stared back at them coolly, his expression one of blank indifference. Talking about him, were they? One in particular, a young male with fair skin and hair a deep brown, sounded especially vicious. The young soldier glared at him hatefully when their gazes met and spat something at him in Bravokii Vincent was sure was less than polite. The mage almost smiled at him, but managed to keep his expression controlled and discovered, much to his growing amusement, that his lack of reaction only seemed to enrage the boy further.

Vincent toyed briefly with the idea of killing his little company of guard dogs and escaping back to Macaria. Even with his magic handicapped and without his armor and weapons, he was hardly helpless. Though he couldn't conjure anything, he could still feel the pull of the energies around him. He could sense them only faintly, but he was certain that with a bit of effort he could still manipulate them with his will and make them useful. Disrupting the abundant earth energies in the mountainside, even just slightly, could produce a potent rock slide. A rock slide on such a narrow mountain path would be devastating and would probably eliminate most of the group.

However, as satisfying a move like that would be, Vincent knew it would be suicide. He was furious at Macaria's defeat, desolated at the loss of his emperor, but reckless and foolish he was not. He was in unfamiliar, hostile territory with little idea about how to navigate the mountain range and how long it would take to get back to his home country. The temperature was much cooler than what he was accustomed to and even if he managed to steal some supplies, it was only too probable that he would die before finding his way back.

And then there was _him_ to consider...

Quite a distance away, at the head of the party of Bravokians, he could see their long-haired leader sitting atop his ebony chocobo. The bird's steady strides set a medium pace for the rest of the group.

His loss to the man had been entirely his own fault, a combination of underestimation and emotional weakness, but there was no denying that the man was a skilled fighter. Without full control of his magic, the wizard knew he would stand little chance against the silver-haired swordsman.

_Then all I can do is wait_, Vincent decided, disgusted he had so little choice. For whatever reason, they had kept him alive and if their generosity (if you could call being taken as a prisoner of war "generosity") continued, he surmised they would take him back to Bravok. And he would let them, living off of their supplies and protection in the meantime, and then once in the foreign kingdom, he would bide his time. Gathering information and scheming until opportunity stuck and he could return to his troubled country.

His eyes slipped closed and he let his thoughts run free through his mind. _They truly could not have taken me from my place at a more inappropriate time..._ He needed to get back to Macaria. And quickly.

Ignir audibly growled as he watched the Macarian seemingly fall back asleep only moments after acknowledging their presence. _"What a fucking bastard,"_ he snapped and brought his chocobo a few steps closer to the wizard, ignoring the warning glances he got from his companions. _"What? We not enough of a threat to you, mage?" _he asked loudly.

Bloody eyes remained closed and the sorcerer's expression was the epitome of peace.

Ignir grunted. _"I bet you'd fucking react if I ran my blade through that cold damn face of yours!" _He grabbed the sword at his hip and rattled it so that Vincent could hear the clinking of the metal of his sword's sheathe against his plated belt.

"_Don't be an idiot," _a blonde woman traveling near the back of the sub-group said with a disapproving expression on her face. _"First of all, you're talking to the man in a language he can't even understand. Do you really think he's going to answer you? Or perhaps you fear his reaction should you speak to him in the common tongue?" _When Ignir couldn't seem to find a reply to either question, she continued. _"And second, Sephiroth made it clear that no one was to hurt him so don't even think about making threats, unless you want to lose a limb."_

Ignir looked mutinous, but pulled his chocobo back with a frustrated growl, putting some distance between himself and the Macarian sorcerer. _"That's what I don't get. He blows away a third of our men and Sephiroth gives him protection? The opposition should be annihilated, not treated like honored guests." _His jaw was clenched and his face strained; his next words came out a bitter hiss of contained rage, _"Landor and Dakvan murdered and I don't even get to avenge their fucking deaths."_

The other four members of the group were unimpressed by his emotional display. A woman in heavy plate armor with her tawny hair gathered into a high ponytail even gave a sardonic chuckle. _"'Murder'? This is war, kid. The mage was simply attacking his enemies; your friends died because they weren't prepared for it." _The female warrior gave Ignir a pitying look, but her voice was much less sympathetic. _"You new guys go around slaughtering other warriors thinking you're invincible. Honestly, the mage did you a favor. Everyone needs to be taken down a notch before they get too arrogant about their abilities."_

"_That's right. Let me give ya a few words, kid. My gift to you as your loving, concerned senior." _A half-smile curled pale lips. The man seemed to find amusement in his own words. _"Realize that the only reason you've made it this far," _the lightly armored red-head lifted a hand and pointed a thin finger towards the head of the company, _"is because you've been fighting behind that guy up there. We fight and kill like our lives fuckin' depend on it, but we're all just cannon fodder. Fight, die, get replaced by the next guy in line. The only name that matters here is Sephiroth's; the rest of us are just nameless soldiers. So don't come bitching to us about your friends or your revenge because no one gives a shit about your problems. "_

—

The wizard was attractive.

When she had been running around the throne room trying to avoid the man's magic, she hadn't really noticed, but while the man had slept she had been free to look at her leisure and she had come to the conclusion that, yes, the Macarian wizard was good-looking.

His skin was fair, light bordering on the bleach white of snow. Surprising for one who hailed from Macaria, a country whose majority found their place on the equator. The inky locks of the mage's hair were the darkest she had ever seen. The bulk of it was pulled into a ponytail that started just below his shoulder blades and tapered to an end at the small of his back. The rest of his sable hair, save for a few haphazard strands, spilled across and around his face gracefully. And that face... the face beneath all that hair had a smooth jaw, a tapered chin, and a small mouth with lips a delicate pink. Lips she had embarrassingly found herself staring at for extended periods of time during her study of the man. His long black lashes curled just slightly and framed, she had been surprised to discover, unusual sanguine eyes. Their strange color both fascinated and frightened her.

The mage was... pretty. The word was awkward for her to use to describe the man as it was rare for her to describe a male as such, but it was true. He was masculine, enough for his gender to be apparent, but there was an undeniable androgyny about him. She could see it in his elegant neck and his fragile-looking collarbone which, along with a touch of flesh at the top of his chest and the line of skin between his neck and shoulder, was left exposed to the elements.

Pity for the spellcaster blossomed suddenly in her chest, but she crushed it quickly. She didn't feel sorry for the man who was forced to wear not but thin, wide-collared undergarments as they trekked deeper into the frigid Kingdom of Bravok. She did _not_ feel sympathy for the wizard. In fact, just looking at him made her feel angry. Angry, threatened, and self-conscious.

Sure the mage had a nice face and a well-muscled, willowy figure, but he was still a man. And as a man, he certainly could not be prettier than her, a gentle, attractive female who took care of her appearance... when she had time to. It was rather difficult to keep well-groomed on the road, especially when the people around her, being the hardened warriors they were, found endless entertainment in poking fun at her "vanity", as they called it. Though the Macarian adept had somehow managed to keep his hair rather thick and glossy, even after so many weeks of travel... She had cut her blonde locks into an unattractive mop a few weeks past in an attempt to salvage them from horrific split ends. Her hair had grown a bit since then, but she still couldn't keep herself from looking at the man's gorgeous mane in envy. _Sweet Vok_, even his hands were attractive. Long and graceful with slender fingers that looked like they could do anything. Her own short, callus-ridden digits gripped the reigns in her grasp uneasily.

Why was she even thinking about this? She was a soldier of Bravok! Appearance should be the last thing she was concerned about. At least she was confident in her skills. Nothing could dodge a knife that left her hands and her prowess with a bow had been praised by Sephiroth himself. She was a high ranking officer, part of Sephiroth's special forces. Good looks hadn't gotten her that position, ability had! She had to be sure of herself, confident...

The wizard too had received compliments from Sephiroth. He had been able to fight the Bravokian king on equal ground, something she could only dream of achieving. Though Sephiroh had been holding back, she had a feeling the blood-eyed sorcerer had also restrained his powers during their duel. How strong Sephiroth truly was she had only ever seen hints of and now this wizard was a similar mystery. If the king himself thought him a worthy opponent...

Attractive _and_ powerful. Now really, that was just unfair.

_Is this why Tseng is always so distant? _She wondered, dejectedly. _Am I not attractive enough? Do I need to become stronger? He knows how I feel, but I can't tell if he feels the same for me or if he's just dating me out of pity..._

As if drawn to her inner turmoil, her thin, red-headed companion brought his chocobo to a pause, resuming his mount's unhurried walk only once his friend had caught up. The young, emotional brunet Ignir filled his vacated spot to the right of the dozing Macarian. _"You look like you're about to start bawling, 'Lena. What's up?"_

"_I'm not going to cry," _Elena said, her tone one of half-hearted annoyance. She knew he was exaggerating so she'd play along. He always told her she took things too seriously, but she was working on it. Her brown eyes gazed off into the direction opposite of the man. She didn't want to look at him directly out of fear of him reading her emotions further.

"_Yeah? Then what's this shining in your eye?" _A leather-covered hand came through her peripheral vision and pushed her eyelid closed. Then, with his thumb, the redhead rubbed her eye cruelly, trying to agitate it enough to form real tears.

"_Ah—! Reno—"_ She swatted his hand away and covered her eyes, massaging them gently to ease the pain. Beyond the darkness of her eyelids she could hear him laughing. _"Reno. You're a jerk."_

When his snickering had finally subsided and Elena had stopped nursing her eyes, Reno spoke again. _"I saw you checking out the mage earlier. You like him or something?" _He shook his head and tutted reprovingly. _"What would Tseng say... his precious Elena looking at other men. Can't say I blame you though, he's pretty hot." _He gave Ignir a short, cheerful wave when the boy turned and sent him a heated glare.

Elena rolled her eyes. _"He's not my type."_

"_Yeah, your tastes run more towards the tall, dark-haired, dot-on-the-forehead kind..."_

"_Reno!"_

"_You were probably just moping about how much prettier he is than you are."_

She nearly choked on her own saliva as the redhead's jest came mortifyingly close to reality. _"Please, I have more self-confidence than that," _she said as dismissively as she could, but she could hear her voice trembling with uncertainty.

Reno grinned and Elena _hated_ when he looked at her like that because she could never tell what he was thinking. Had he caught onto her lie, or not? His arm came around her neck and he pulled her towards him until their temples were touching. _"Don't worry, Elena."_ His voice dropped to a husky whisper and his warm breath brushed her ear. _"I think you're cute."_

She shoved him away so hard he nearly fell off his chocobo and Reno's resulting panicked flailing gave Elena enough time to put distance between them and hide her burning face. It wasn't her fault she wasn't used to men saying those sort of things to her! She couldn't believe she was blushing. It wasn't like anything Reno said about a person's appearance held any weight. The redhead's standards were _terrifyingly_ low. He himself had said he would hit on just about anything as long as it was vaguely humanoid. Still, she couldn't help but feel somewhat flattered. And she did feel better.

Elena sighed to herself, resigned. Only Reno could cheer her up by mocking her. She supposed that was why they were still friends, though at the moment she wanted to throw one of her knives his way to end his incessant snickering.

"_I was thinking, while I was watching the mage..." _the blonde said in a quiet voice as she slowed her chocobo. She wanted to keep this conversation private. Reno seemed to get the hint and matched her pace, glancing behind to make sure no one was within earshot. _"I wonder why Sephiroth is taking him with us?"_

Reno snorted. _"Elena, you should know better than to try understand what goes through that man's head."_

Even those close to the swordsman, people like himself and Elena, had no idea as to what the ruler thought and schemed about in his spare time. And "close" was a relative term. "Spent slightly more time with than the rest of the populace" was much more accurate. Even after years in his service, besides what he could gather from the cat-eyed warrior's personality and cruel, sarcastic sense of humor, Reno knew next to nothing about the king of Bravok. The man was a capable fighter and ruler; he had the unwavering respect of everyone who served him, but those things were all common knowledge.

"_You're not even curious?" _Elena's brown eyes were wide with genuine surprise.

"_What's there to be curious about? Nothing weird about taking prisoners of war."_

"_Yeah, but every prisoner so far has been a ranked officer. It weakens the moral of the conquered and prevents uprisings in their military." _She ticked the points off on her fingers. _"At least that makes sense strategically. This Macarian is just some mage."_

"_A mage we encountered in the castle who managed to trade blows with our strongest fighter. He could be a general or the emperor's personal bedwarmer for all we know, but his fighting ability alone makes him worth capturing."_

"_Isn't that dangerous?"_

Reno gave her a strange look and then laughed at her outright. Loudly. _"Isn't that what makes it interesting?" _he asked with a broad grin. _"I think Seph, probably thinks so too. 'Laney... you really need to get out more."_

Elena pursed her lips, somewhat vexed by Reno's apparent amusement (what was so amusing about what she had said, anyway?), but she bit back the unpleasant retort she had on edge of her tongue in favor of letting him continue. She really did want to hear his opinion on the matter. As childish as Reno could be at times, he was perceptive and clever and he had been part of the Turks for a lot longer than she had.

"_Besides, it's probably more dangerous to let power like that roam around Macaria unchecked." _There were Bravokian soldiers stationed in Macaria, but they were there to observe rather than to enforce Bravokian rule. It was always like that after a takeover. "Let our presence be known, but do not interfere" Sephiroth had said. Reno thought Sephiroth's methods were unnecessarily risky, but they had worked so far so he couldn't argue them. The leather-clad soldier turned towards his companion and continued. _"When times are rough, people will gather around anyone with power and a revolt of the common people is just as dangerous as one of the military."_

The blonde Turk mulled over his words quietly and silence stretched between them. _"What do you think of him?" _Elena asked abruptly after a few minutes of contemplation.

Reno regarded her with an eyebrow cocked. He had thought their conversation had ended. Much of the wizard's back view was blocked by his mount's enormous feathery tail; Reno took in what he could see of the male's silky hair and lean figure and nodded. _"I'd hit that."_

Elena groaned and wondered why, for the life of her, did she ever bother asking the redhead anything. How she could have let herself believe his serious mood and surprising capacity for intelligent conversation would last for more than a few precious, beautiful moments.

Reno grinned at her obvious misery, but her moaning faded into the periphery of his mind as his gaze fell on the mage once more.

_You must be something else if Sephiroth's taken an interest in you._

—

How many days had passed since his awakening? How many times had he seen the sun peeking through the narrow opening between mountain tops only to sink behind them again a few short hours later? There seemed no end to this sierra. Each twist and turn in the mountain path revealed only more miles of trail they needed to hike. If this was how long it took to travel to the Valley of Vok enclosed somewhere within the towering peaks, Vincent could not help but wonder how long it had taken to journey from the Macarian capital of Ismena, at the very southern end of the continent, to the the border. Certainly too long for him to have slept through, even brought to unconsciousness unwillingly as he had been.

A sleep spell. Unnatural sleep cast upon him by he knew could only be one person. The thought of Sephiroth slipping the spell over him when he had been comatose and unable to defend himself made his dislike of the man grow further. Bitterness and hatred towards the military leader had been building within him each passing day.

There _were_ no days for Sephiroth. He pushed the group forward on their trip through the daytime and the night. It mattered not to the man if they were traveling across a decrepit, precarious bridge when the mountain pass was black as pitch or trekking through a tunnel full of ominous, offshoot caverns when nocturnal hunters were on the prowl. The swordsman would summon a few luminous orbs to cast their pale glow onto their surroundings and a few lamps would be lit, then they would press on. After perhaps a day and a half of travel they would stop for a few hours' rest, but all too soon they would be on the move again.

Vincent was tired and freezing and all he had done was sit atop a chocobo. He could respect the Bravokians' endurance and discipline. Few soldiers seemed to complain about the harsh expedition. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but if anyone had anything unpleasant to say, they were usually glaring in his direction when they said it. As long they kept feeding him, the archmage wasn't particularly concerned what their opinion of him was. He didn't like them much either.

_If Sephiroth was in such a hurry to get back, he have should brought his troops back to Bravok on an airship, _Vincent thought to himself as he peeked down through the feathers of his chocobo.

The trail had led them to a narrow path that clung tightly to the side of one of Trava's many peaks. The path was barely more than an outcrop and the company of warriors were forced to travel in single file. Many had gotten off of their mounts to guide the large birds on foot and already there had been a few close calls. Vincent gazed warily at the steep drop off the edge of the trail. He would have preferred to proceed on foot as well, but with the way his hands had been bound to his mount's saddle, he had little choice in the matter. Instead he had to trust in one of his ever-present guard dogs, the redhead, to guide his chocobo safely around the mountainside.

A sprinkle of small rocks showered over him suddenly. One of the Bravokian soldiers cried out in alarm; it seemed he wasn't the only one who had felt it. There were pebbles now, rolling down the slope and past the feet of frightened birds and panicked soldiers.

And then it was quiet.

Everyone stood very still, hovering uncertainly in their places as if afraid any sudden movements would trigger more falling rocks. Vincent could have laughed. How horribly appropriate it would have been if he had perished in a rock slide, of all things, alongside his sworn enemies. After a number of tense moments they were pushing forward again, albeit cautiously. The Bravokians seemed to have come to an unanimous agreement that it would be best if they remove themselves from the unstable region.

Vincent had traveled barely twenty meters when he heard thunder above them.

Dirt and stones were hailing on them, but most of the debris consisted of tiny, non-threatening pebbles. The rocks were brittle, Vincent noted as he tried to shield himself from the falling shards and then it dawned on him just how much danger he was in. He looked up at the steely rock face and saw the first boulder break through the blanket of cloud above them. Soldiers were yelling and those on foot pasted themselves to the side of mountain. Suddenly the wizard felt like an enormous target. Alarms were going off in his mind and instinct kicked in. In less than a moment he was calling on his magic.

The delicate breeze drifting through the air was suddenly a gale that whipped his hair and his loose sleeves around him violently. He condensed the fierce wind into a shield and then he was enveloped by it.

With each bounce on the mountainside, pieces of the boulder broke off and splintered into hundreds of jagged shards and around him warriors were pelleted with the sharp debris. A fighter not five meters ahead of him was trying valiantly to deflect the stones with his broadsword, but had chosen to travel with his helm off and paid for it dearly when a fist-sized rock collided with his unprotected head. Blood and bone exploded from his broken face and he tipped backwards dangerously. The weight of his sword kept him balanced for a few short instants before the blade slipped from his limp fingers and his body fell, crashed, and tumbled until it could no longer seen past the stratus clouds below.

Vincent's wind shield protected him well against the debris, but more boulders were pouring from the sky. Many passed over the tiny outcrop harmlessly, but many more were crushing bodies and sending chocobos to their deaths. He had been right. The rock slide ravaged the powerful warriors. Their heavy armor could not save them from the unstoppable momentum of the rolling boulders. The knowledge was not as elating as he thought it would be.

Sephiroth swore to himself as more rumbling sounded overhead. There were too many boulders to deflect, too many soldiers to save. Single file had forced the large company into a massive line and there was just too much distance between the front of it and the back for him to protect them all effectively. He could see Reno and Elena where he had placed them, near the back with the captive mage, doing what they could to help, but Reno's talents were ill-suited for supporting others and though Elena had used the tiny bit of magic Sephiroth had taught her to erect a few barriers, Sephiroth could see the shields shattering under the heavier impacts. The middle of the line, without anyone to cover them with magic buffers and too little space to defend themselves in, had suffered the most casualties.

The silver-haired king threw up a large barrier over the soldiers around him before leaping over them. He cast barriers and wind spells to deflect what he could as he virtually glided over the first half of the line. Had there been fewer people he would have sliced the giant rocks with his sword, but, as it was, he was already having a difficult enough time covering the entire party; the last this he wanted to do was throw more debris into the mix.

As he landed by the group in the center and began to assist them, the fall of large boulders started to wane mercifully. Sephiroth took the opportunity to glance towards the back of the line to see how his two Turks and the wizard were faring and his eyes met a terrible event already in progress.

At the very end of the band of warriors, a middle-aged berserker with a thick black beard, Baltac Sephiroth knew his name to be, was in the process of calming his two dismayed chocobos, unaware of the lone slab of stone tumbling his way. It bounced and, for a brief moment, Sephiroth thought it might miss the man completely, but when the rock came down it hit Baltac full on. The entire right side of his body was instantly crushed and the man and the boulder were in the air, then rolling down the rest of the rocky mountainside.

One chocobo Baltac had tied to himself, ironically to prevent the bird from falling over the edge completely should it slip, plummeted with him, as did the numerous, supply sacks strapped to its back. The other provision-laden bird slid right off the path, its reigns gripped in the hand of the dead Baltac. The terrified animal warked and kwehed in alarm and just as the fallen berserker slipped out of reach, the bird broke free of his hold. Talons clawed and raked at the crumbling rock face beneath the chocobos feet, but the yellow bird fought for survival and flapped its wings furiously. A few small sacks came loose and fell from the animal's back, lost forever to the gravel and darkness thousands of feet below, but with a great final push the chocobo made it back onto the path. The rest of the supplies were secured.

When the last of the boulders had fallen, the Bravokian ruler surveyed the damage around him. The fight had managed to keep most of the path clear, but many new obstacles had appeared that they would have to find their way around. Beneath the boulders there were many who were dead or injured and those who were still standing sported fresh wounds and armor that needed repairing. No one had seen what he had. No one knew that half of their supplies now littered the base of the mountain. _Later,_ Sephiroth decided. _Those who need immediate help I will deal with now. I'll tell them about the supplies later._

Just then there was furious roar. _"IT WAS HIM! THAT BASTARD MAGE SENT THIS DISASTER UPON US!" _Ignir was turning his crazed, seething eyes to anyone who would listen. _"When has there ever been a rock slide here? I SAW HIM CAST MAGIC!" _he bellowed. _"Silence did NOTHING to keep him from using magic, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK THOSE TRINKETS WOULD DO ANY BETTER?" _The brunet whipped his head around violently, splattering those around him with sweat and blood. His eyes locked on Vincent and his face twisted into an ugly expression of pure, unadulterated loathing. _"Look at him," _he hissed. Ignir's eyes were glowing with mad rage._ "LOOK AT HIM! WOUNDLESS. UNSCATHED. HE PLANNED IT ALL AND HE SHIELDED HIMSELF AGAINST IT!"_

The young fighter unsheathed his broadsword and rushed at the archmage with a scream that resounded throughout Trava. No more. No longer would he and his friends suffer at the hands of this _demon_.

Vincent stared at the enraged warrior as he charged, indecision halting his actions. He didn't understand what the boy had been yelling about, but the mage could put two and two together. If he cast magic to defend himself now, if they discovered he was still capable of spellcasting, then all fingers would be pointed at him. However, if he didn't do something soon then he was going to die. His fingers twitched. Closer. Closer. A magnificent leap and the brand was almost upon him—

A bright, slender blade pierced Ignir's wide, shrieking mouth in midair and the soldier's voice quavered. When the tip reappeared on the other side of his head, his voice stopped completely. Sephiroth walked in from the edge of Vincent's vision with his masamune in his left hand and his arm lifted to keep Ignir from collapsing. With every step, more of the horrific blade passed through the petrified warrior's face. When the master swordsman had made it past Vincent's chocobo, he stopped.

"_Did I not say that no one was to hurt this man?" _Sephiroth asked the trembling youth in a low, dead voice.

Ignir gazed fearfully at his king and his sword fell from his quaking hand. He responded with a high-pitched whine and a gurgle that had crimson liquid spilling from his lips.

Sephiroth watched the boy cry pitifully around the blade of his masamune for a few moments longer before lifting the body off of the ground and over the long drop so many of their comrades had already fallen to. He held his left arm straight and tilted his wrist just slightly. Ignir screamed through the blood in his mouth as he felt himself slide down the blade. Another few feet and he would be that much closer to death and that much further away from his fellow warriors on the path.

"_Let this be a lesson to everyone," _Sephiroth was saying over the hysterical noises of the boy on his sword. _"My orders are to be followed always."_

He tilted his sword further and Ignir grasped desperately at the masamune, mindless of the sharp edge of the blade slicing through the flesh of his hands, but it was in vain. Faster he slid, the pressure of the weapon against the roof of his mouth was unbearable and then it was no more. His bloody, useless hands slipped from the blade and then he was a dark speck disappearing through the clouds.

The soldiers were silent as Sephiroth turned to Vincent. Aqua looked up at expressionless crimson and their gazes locked. Neither man said a word and both expressions were indecipherable. The king blinked. He could see the sorcerer shivering and it occurred to Sephiroth quite suddenly that the man might be cold. Such thin clothes in the frigid mountains of Trava; it was fortunate the man hadn't come down with hypothermia. Sephiroth's bloodied masamune vanished from sight and he brought his hands up to remove the heavy, fur-lined cloak from his shoulders. He tossed the cape over the trembling figure and pulled the wide hood up over the mage's dark head.

The hood fell over much of Vincent's face and all he could see of the merciless swordsman was that smirk. Then the smirk disappeared and the lips were moving as Sephiroth spoke to him for the second time.

"Try not to get yourself killed before we get there."


	3. The Final Stretch

_Disclaimer: The author of this story does not own any characters from Final Fantasy VII._

_Updating like this wasn't what I had in mind when I started this story. It's been a mixture of procrastination, slow-ass writing, and real life that's kept this chapter from coming out. These past few months have been especially busy. I don't know if I'll have more work to do or less this coming year, but just know that whatever happens I'm going to finish this story (however long it takes me D: )._

_I've looked at this chapter so much that I can't tell if it's really as terrible as I think it is or if I'm just sick of staring at it. It's like… 50% brooding and introspection, so try not to fall asleep, lol. Anyway, I think Chapter 4 will be a little more interesting._

_I'm glad so many people were pleased with my portrayal of Reno. I'm not a big fan of idiot!Reno or damsel!Vincent. I don't think I'm doing anyone justice quite yet, but we've got time… This is going to be a long story. I also read _Dragon Bones_ and I really enjoyed it. If anyone as any more recommendations I'd like to hear them!_

_Thank you to all the readers and reviewers who stayed with me after the first chapter. Thanks to those who have taken the time to PM me about this story and everyone who's been telling me to update. I don't need to tell you guys that you're the best, you already know you're the best. If any of you are still alive or if you're new to the story, let me know your thoughts about my writing, how you feel about _Sword and Sorcery_, your predictions about the plot, etc. I read the reviews all the time, especially when I need inspiration! If you have any comments about my grammar/punctuation, please tell me. I'm not gonna lie, I've looked it up so many times and I still don't know how the hell to use a semi colon :(  
_

**_Story notes:_**

_Changed an odd line in Chapter 2 about Trava bordering Bravok and Macaria. That's only true on a technicality, I don't know why I wrote that. So, if you were under the impression that Bravok and Macaria were right next to each, sorry!_

_Also in Chapter 2, removed a line about Vincent knowing Sephiroth's name upon wake up. That just didn't make any sense._

_Reminder: _"Non-italic speech"_ means speaking in the common tongue (which most people can understand) and "Italic speech" is speech in a regional language (Bravokii, Macarian, etc.)_

* * *

**Chapter 3: The Final Stretch**

―

Shadows jumped and danced across the heavy cloth walls as another icy wind whipped around the flimsy shelter. All throughout the tent, tiny white-orange flames quivered in their metal cages as they fought for their lives against the howling gale. Their struggle was intense, but brief; after only a few short moments the wind subsided and the frantic writhing of the little fires slowed to a lazy flicker.

Throughout the day the group of soldiers and their Macarian captive had trekked deeper into the mountain range Trava and their journey had taken them far into the treacherous north where the weather of mid-autumn Bravok had greeted them eagerly. A light powder had begun falling early in the morning and by late afternoon a substantial layer of snow had accumulated on their path. Now, with the last traces of twilight disappearing behind the ever-darkening clouds, it seemed night would bring them colder temperatures still.

The warmth of the glowing lanterns did little to combat the permeating chill that had crept into the tent. Though they were supposed to be resting, the tent's occupants had chosen to remain in their armor. Plate and mail were less than ideal for insulating heat, but they protected well against the screaming wind and the thick cloths and furs packed just beneath the metal overlay kept the heat radiating off of their bodies flush with their skin.

For this Rashiv was grateful as she hurried to tie the tent's entrance closed. The wind picked up again and a breeze frozen as Shiva's breath brushed her cheeks and stole the feeling from her face. She squinted her eyes against the flakes to better see the knot she was clumsily threading. Through the open flap of the tent, she briefly caught sight of weary soldiers huddled around campfires in the snow before they disappeared behind the sealed entrance.

_"This is all of it?"_ Sephiroth inquired, the restless strands of his silver hair finally settling in the tent's still air. The king's face was a cool blank, but his green cat eyes were dark and narrow. Although his expression was carefully guarded, it was plain that his thoughts were less than pleasant.

_"Yes, sir."_ Rashiv kept her eyes trained on the man, warily awaiting his reaction to her words. Had the swordsman been in a better mood she might have felt free to voice her concern about the situation. As king, Sephiroth was remarkably dismissive about the usual formalities. Though far from outgoing and nowhere near anyone's definition of friendly, he encouraged his subjects to call him by name and was usually open to opinions and suggestions. Now, however, after the incident with Ignir and with Sephiroth already in a foul mood, she was not keen on saying anything that might entice the monarch's anger. No one was.

Mindless of the woman shifting uneasily beside him, Sephiroth gazed at the supplies laid out on the tent floor in quiet displeasure. Most of the provisions that had been stripped from the surviving supply chocobo were healing items and tools for general survival. Useful, certainly, especially considering the number of injured and critically wounded he had suffering outside, but _food_ was vital for the survival of the wounded and uninjured both. What was left of it, a mere two bundles of dried meat and bread, would not last his soldiers the night.

After a long period of deliberate musing, Sephiroth spoke suddenly into the silence, _"dismissed."_ Rashiv started, but recovered quickly and bowed low to her king before shuffling out of the tent in a hurry, eager to get away from the man and the crushing anxiety she felt just being in his presence.

Sephiroth brought the worn leather of his glove to his face and massaged his temples. He was a calm man. Controlled. Very rarely did he let his emotions get the better of him, but tonight he exhaled loudly and permitted himself an audible groan of annoyance.

The rockslide had been unexpected. The Faina path was not prone to loose rocks and was, despite its difficulty, preferred by many for that very reason. The words of the late Ignir came to his mind and he mulled over them slowly, considering them carefully. Could the captive still use magic despite the hexed bracelets that had been placed upon him? From what he had seen of the wizard's power in Ismena, Sephiroth wouldn't be surprised if the man could. In fact, he would be rather disappointed if he discovered the mage could not after having witnessed the caster's remarkable resistance to his Silence spell. More difficult was the question of the sorcerer's guilt. If the man could cast magic as Sephiroth suspected, had he called the boulders to rain down on them or was he the victim of unfortunate coincidence? At the present the king was willing to presume the latter, if only because it would be a shame and a waste to kill the Macarian before his curiosity had been satisfied. Sephiroth would allow the mage to live, for now.

Content with his decision on the prisoner, the King of Bravok shifted the focus of his thoughts to the food shortage. With less than a week's worth of travel remaining, the final stretch of their journey should have been a leisurely stroll. Had the circumstances been common, he would not be concerned about the survival of his warriors. Starvation killed slowly and unpleasantly, but Bravokians were by nature hardbodied and strong-willed. Not a single one of them would have complained about a few days without food.

Sephiroth paced the length of the tent with long strides, the mythril plate of his boots clinking quietly as he walked. His eyes swept over the bandages and healing potions spread out on the tent floor; their presence was a bitter reminder that the situation was anything but ordinary. Many of his soldiers were dying and nearly all of them suffered from some sort of injury. How many of them would still be alive by the time they reached Vok was uncertain and the circumstances were not in their favor. It was quite the dilemma. Should he slow the speed of their traveling to give the injured time to recover, he risked more deaths through starvation, yet if he kept the harsh pace that he had set and they were able to reach Vok in the least amount of time possible, the likelihood of those weakened by their injuries surviving the journey decreased significantly.

There would be deaths either way, that much was certain to Sephiroth as he brought his pacing to a halt near the entrance of the tent. And the path with the least amount of sacrifice was clear. He unlaced the knot at the tent's door and brushed past the cloth flap, stepping out of the tent at last to greet his tired soldiers.

Those who had settled closest to his tent noticed him immediately and their conversations faded to silence as they watched him with curious expressions. The master swordsman spotted Rashiv sitting at a fire near the sleeping supply chocobo and beckoned her with a gesture. She hastily complied, her eyes wide and her heart pounding uneasily in her chest as she approached him. Sephiroth spoke to her in a voice just above a whisper and Rashiv regained her composure when she heard his simple command. He nodded to her in dismissal and she bowed to him politely before reentering the tent.

The king turned back to his waiting subjects, content to gather their collective attention simply by standing before them patiently. Snake eyes roved around the camp, taking in every worn out face and bandaged wound until pausing at a familiar group of three near the far end of the encampment.

He was pleased to see that Reno and Elena had managed to get out of the rockslide relatively unharmed, but Sephiroth had expected nothing less of them. The mage still had the king's thick cloak wrapped around his person. Sitting in the snow as he was, the man had little else to keep himself from freezing. Distantly Sephiroth reminded himself to send the prisoner some warmer clothes. He doubted the man would be as useful to him with missing limbs. Sephiroth could just barely make out dark eyes staring back at him from beneath the cloak's fur-lined cowl. A smirk tugged at the corner of the king's lips.

Content that he had drawn a enough attention to himself, Sephiroth shifted his gaze back to his soldiers and began. _"I will be blunt,"_ his words carried easily across the camp, though he made no effort to raise his voice above its usual level, _"after tonight there will be no food left for us."_ Many expressions turned dark at his words. He met each of them with a cool expression of his own. _"Given the situation, it isn't the best of news, but we'll deal with it as well as we can. If you are able to walk you will come to me after we have eaten. I will assign each of you to a hunting group and we will work out the order of your shifts."_

Sephiroth was not surprised to see that few were eased by his words. As the winter months approached, the bleak terrain of Trava grew even more barren and edible plants, already uncommon, became scarce. Sephiroth's sharp eyes, had seen exactly two creatures throughout their entire venture in the mountains; both had been small hares. Perhaps the Travan beasts were simply too wary to approach a group as large as theirs and their luck would improve once they had split themselves into smaller hunting parties. The thought gave the swordsman little comfort. Autumn in Bravok was a harsh time. Their chances of finding game enough to feed over a hundred men would be slim to none.

_"In the meantime, Rashiv will distribute the food."_ The armored woman had stepped out of the tent while he had been speaking. The two bundles of food were tucked neatly under her arms. Sephiroth gave his men one final, level stare. Even at this time of night his bright eyes could be seen distinctly, cold and clear against the dark of their surroundings. _"Rest early. Come morning we leave with the dawn."_

—

Reno grinned bitterly as Sephiroth retreated once more to his tent and murmuring broke out around the encampment.

A humorless laugh. _"Dawn?"_

_"Shit, I can't even walk on this leg."_

_"Unless my side miraculously heals by morning..."_

He turned his attention to the captive mage. At this angle he couldn't see much of the man's face, but the dark-haired Macarian seemed to still be focused on the spot where Sephiroth had been standing. Reno wondered if he was curious about what had just been said.

"He told us we have no food."

Vincent turned to the redhead slightly, just enough so that he could see deep blue-green eyes watching him in interest. Reno, if Vincent recalled correctly. And the blonde had introduced herself as Elena. The two Bravokians had been almost disarmingly amiable so far. Vincent had yet to speak a word to either of them, but he waited patiently for Reno to continue speaking, keeping his eyes on the other man to let him know that he had his attention.

Reno went on, undeterred by Vincent's silence, "he also said we have to leave at dawn." He groaned and flopped back onto the frozen ground. "No breaks. That bastard." And that earned him a kick in the side. Reno rolled into a fetal position to protect his vitals from the disgruntled blonde at his back. "This kid," he bit out in a groan. "Sephiroth could tell us to jump off Svetlana and she'd do it." He smiled because it was true. Elena kicked him again anyways.

"Well, Sephiroth's right. We can't exactly sit around here and waste time when we've got nothing to eat," Elena said in the king's defense. "I trust his judgement." Her neck started burning when she caught Vincent staring at her with what looked like disapproval. Did he think her loyalty was foolish? Or maybe he just objected to the idea of someone following the orders of a man he clearly disliked. Her ears began to heat up under the pressure of the wizard's red gaze. Why couldn't she just take a joke like a normal person? She should've just kept her mouth shut...

It was at this time that Rashiv, still distributing rations, arrived to see Reno on the ground moaning pitifully, Elena with her glowing face buried in her hands, and Vincent watching them both with an empty expression.

_"Um..."_ She hoped she wasn't interrupting anything. _"This is the captive, correct?"_ she asked the two who could understand her, motioning towards the pale, blood-eyed man in question.

Reno sat up immediately, his mood brightening considerably with the arrival of food. _"Yep, that's him."_

Rashiv offered Vincent a pile of folded clothes which the man accepted quietly. The clothing was quite a bit more modest than the elaborate robes he had been captured in, but much more suitable than his undergarments for northern weather.

The woman then handed him a piece of stale bread the size of his palm. Reno and Elena each received similar shares. _"This is for the three of you to split,"_ the brunette said in Bravokii as she gave Reno a strip of dried meat barely six inches in length.

The trio stared at their rations in uneasy silence. Elena felt a clench in her gut. For some reason, knowing that there was no guarantee of another meal after this only made her feel hungrier.

It was going to be a long week.

—

Seven people were dead by the end of the next day.

On the day after, Vincent found himself trudging through the thick snow alongside his Bravokian captors. The chocobo he had been riding was one of many now responsible for carrying the weak and the wounded. The archmage welcomed the change. The ride had given him a little too much time to think and, as those who were familiar with him would say, Vincent thinking always led to Vincent brooding.

Walking gave him something to do, something to distract him from the dark paths his mind had recently become prone to wandering. Rather than wonder about the fate of his home, he made careful observations of the desolate, rocky terrain. Instead of remembering how the body of Emperor Luo, who might as well have been his second father, had looked crumpled and broken on the throne room carpet, he paid especial attention to the strange crunching noises the snow made under his boots.

Snow, Vincent decided, was a bizarre substance. Hard enough to walk on, soft enough to mold, and light enough to float through the air in lazy swirls before landing on his eyelashes and melting away. It did not snow in Macaria. Though the trees around large cities like Ismena had long since been leveled to make room for trade routes and the country's ever-growing population, southern Macaria was thick with rainforests. Her climate was warm and tropical; water from the skies only ever came down in the form of balmy Macarian rain.

Even conjured snow was a rarity in his kingdom. Vincent was a learned mage; for him magic had an infinite number of uses, its application limited only by his ability and imagination, but at his core he was a sorcerer of war. All his life he had honed his art for destruction and not once had Vincent ever found a reason to conjure snow. On the field of battle there was nothing the fragile ice crystals could do that a sheet or shard of proper ice could not do better.

In fact, he couldn't even recall ever having seen snow before he had been unwillingly taken into Bravok. Now thinking back on the myriad places that he had journeyed to, they all seemed rather bland and homogenous. Pavla's great port city of Marku hadn't been much different from Macaria's own Durah and Midgar in the summer might as well have been Ismena at any time of the year, hot, busy, and teeming with merchants eager to get their fingers on some coin. For all the traveling he had done during his apprenticeship and for the emperor, he suddenly felt as if he had not seen much of anything at all. Strange how these thoughts only occurred to him now that he no longer had the freedom to travel. Once within the borders of Vok, he would consider himself fortunate to see anything outside of a dungeon cell, much less Macaria or any other—

The archmage ended that train of thought before it had a chance to finish. Once again his mind was treading dangerously close to dismal territory. Sulking, he reminded himself, would do very little to help his situation and he needed to be levelheaded and vigilant in the company of enemies. Nevertheless, it was taking a monumental effort on his part to keep his tendencies in check. He never had been one for optimism. He was a realist with a (more than) healthy inclination toward cynicism and at the present, reality was looking pretty bleak. He supposed he could give himself brownie points for at least trying to be cheerful. If the High General could see the positivity Vincent was forcing upon himself, the sorcerer imagined the man would be rather amused, maybe even a little proud of the archmage's efforts.

Vincent almost smiled at that. Now, the general would have been an effective distraction from his overwhelming depression... but that was another line of thought not worth pursuing. That one he knew would end in disappointment.

A low rumble sounded from somewhere ahead and caught Vincent's attention. The noise had not been particularly threatening, more the whimpering of a helpless pup than the snarling of a feral animal, and the mystery of its origin was solved in swift anticlimax when the wizard spotted Elena bowing her head in embarrassment a little ways up the trail.

Vincent was amused despite his despondent mood. The blonde was a peculiar girl; self-conscious, but eager to fight for her leader. Vincent had seen her capable of some magic, though her weak aura told him that sorcery probably wasn't her forte. Her unfailing loyalty to the pale swordsman was unfortunate, but the woman did have an air of naivety about her. Ignorance was out of place on the battlefield. He could not help but wonder how she had gotten involved in this dirty business of capturing kingdoms and soldiers with Bravok. Out of indifference, Vincent remained characteristically quiet and let the girl's growling stomach pass without comment.

More surprising was how Reno kept equally silent in his spot behind Vincent. The wizard had expected a snide remark from him; the man always made a point to harass Elena at every passing opportunity. Reno's hunger was making him unusually mindful of his companion, perhaps.

Vincent could admit that though he was normally a capable judge of character, he found the redhead difficult to analyze and predict. Reno was an enigma to him. The other man had an easy charm that Vincent was sure had seduced many hapless fools into dropping their defenses around him, but it was an appeal that was almost too flawless, as if it had been polished to perfection. It was nearly impossible for Vincent to tell when the man was being genuine and the archmage couldn't shake the suspicion that he had so far only seen one facet of a chameleonic personality. Mistrustful by nature, Vincent had Reno marked as someone who could potentially be very dangerous.

Together the two soldiers of Bravok made an odd, interesting duo. They were his constant companions and, as far as he could tell, the last remaining of his watchdogs. After witnessing the angry brown-haired boy make his final trip down the mountain courtesy of Sephiroth, it had taken Vincent a little time to realize that the two others had also gone missing after the rockslide. He couldn't say he was sorry for the loss. The fewer Bravokian pigs he had breathing down the back of his neck, the better. Elena and Reno at least treated him with some decency, which was more than could be said for the rest of the group, with whom his interactions with were limited to silent stare downs and hateful glaring. Vincent was unwilling to admit that he had also become reliant on the pair. They were his enemies, but they were also his only sources of information and entertainment. Their company made the journey somewhat bearable.

The clouds parted overhead suddenly and the sun came into view much lower than the wizard had expected. Not even noon, yet it felt like they had been walking for days. The endless, winding mountain trails were disorienting him. The high altitude was disturbing his senses. His thighs protested every step and now that he was running out of things to occupy his mind with, he was finding it difficult to ignore the aches in his body. Skipping breakfast had left him with a sort of bone-deep weariness Vincent couldn't recall ever having felt in the entirety of his existence. His lifestyle was an easy one. Even before he had been taken into the castle, the humble life he had lived with his father had never presented him with any real hardships. At least there had always been food on the table.

For the first time in a long time, Vincent could feel the bitter taste of suffering building in the back of his throat. Despite his efforts to keep it at bay, he was beginning to feel the heaviness of the struggle weighing on his spirit.

—

_"For Borya."_

The others echoed him sullenly and raised their tankards. Together they put the pewter to their lips and drank. Oleg downed his water in four long gulps, wishing not for the first time that there was still ale for him to drown his sorrows with. The liquid snow scalded the inside of his mouth and burned down his throat, still hot from being boiled over the fire. It wasn't pleasant by any means, but it warmed his body all the same. It would do.

The group let the stillness stretch between them. On the other side of the fire, Oleg could see Nikol gazing pensively into the dancing flames. There were rims under his eyes and shadows in his hollow cheeks; not even the warm light of the blaze could hide his sickly pallor. The man looked nothing like his usual cheerful self. His mouth was a deep, grim line; hard and unmoving, like an incision that had been permanently etched into his face. Oleg could imagine he was thinking about his family back in Vok, his wife Yelena and their girl, and how Borya's little Ilya was now going to grow up without either of his parents. Borya had always been so damn proud of that kid.

_"He was a good man,"_ Arkady stared unseeingly at his empty mug as he spoke. _"A good warrior..."_

His words hung heavy in the air and the gathering faded back into reflective quietness. Arkady had cut too close to the great tragedy of the situation. Borya, a man of extraordinary fighting prowess who had been such a force on the battleground, had succumbed to a miserable, honorless death. He had died weak and pitiful in his sleep when he should have fallen in glory as a hero on the field of war.

Oleg rubbed some feeling back into his leg. His injuries weren't as bad as Borya's had been, at least he could still walk, but he wasn't as young as he used to be. He was older than most of the other soldiers. Years older. Decades older in most cases. A couple of days ago the pain in his thigh had dulled mercifully. He had been hopeful, thinking that he might be healing, but now the rest of the sensation in his leg was beginning to fade away. He needed to see a white mage. He needed to see Vok again. He was starting to think he might not get a chance to do either.

Nikol's eyes snapped upwards suddenly, his intense gaze locked on something behind Oleg. It wasn't until they had passed that Oleg saw their backs and recognized them. Sephiroth's two Turks and the prisoner from Ismena.

_"He's still alive?"_ Yefim's voice was little more than a growl.

_"That mage should have been the first to go."_ Oleg could feel the mood of the gathering shifting rapidly.

_"I don't know what the fuck Sephiroth's thinking. We're starving, _dying_, but the prisoner gets to stay? He's just another mouth to feed!"_ Nikol was nodding in grave agreement as Arkady went off on his tirade. _"Shit's been going downhill ever since he appeared. The castle, the rockslide, and now we don't have food—"_

Yefim had been thinking about it too. _"And you heard what Ignir said. He told us the mage could use magic. How do we know this hasn't been his plan all along? I bet he destroyed the food when we weren't looking. Called the rocks, burned the food. He's trying to kill us all and it's working."_

Oleg found himself agreeing with what they were saying. Ignir hadn't been the sharpest of swords, but what if he had been right? The king's recent decisions had been, Oleg couldn't deny it, _bad_ and Sephiroth's usually faultless logic was being called into question. Even Oleg's iron-hard loyalty was beginning to waver.

He decided to put his two gil forward. _"Look, I'd die a happy man at Sephiroth's side, but lately... Well, lemme jus' say there's something wrong when a man like Borya dies so that a POW can eat his meal."_

—

To say that he was hungry would be a gross understatement. His body was in a perpetual state of torment. For most of the day the ache in his stomach was a dull, persistent discomfort on the edge of his consciousness, but then occasionally it would spike; an intrusive stab of incredible agony that would start and fester in his gut and then creep outwards into his extremities to provoke new kinds of pain.

The migraines were ever-present now. No amount of nose-pinching, temple-massaging, or sinus-rubbing would cure the pangs that were constantly shooting through his head. Stress, dehydration, malnutrition; Vincent was sure the cause was one part everything.

And he was so tired. He kept walking because he knew that it would hurt more when he stopped, but gods, he was so exhausted. He no longer had the energy to move, much less hike as much as Sephiroth forced them to. Whenever the wind picked up, the icy gales pierced straight through him. He could imagine what it must feel like to be a Macarian banner, fluttering over a burning city then ripped apart and shredded into non-existence by the frigid winds of Bravok. The image came all too easily.

Vincent had given up on positive thinking. He was just too fucking tired. He walked and walked and let his dark thoughts run rampant. Sometimes he thought about the general, other times he thought about older hurts like his father and his master, but mostly he thought about Macaria and Ime Luo. Their deaths were still fresh in his mind and when he brushed them with his thoughts they stuck and lingered. Emperor Luo prone and slain, nothing at all like the powerful, regal man the archmage had loved. Macaria, the world's intellectual center, under the control of men who knew of only diplomacy through blades. Emperor Luo the day of defeat, fitting over his robes armor white-gold like his eyes. His long white hair unusually loose as he folded the sleeves of his robe back over the deep brown of his arms. His robes were red._ "Blood is the color of war."_ Macaria, whose air was magic and whose mind was full of science, technology, and growth, in the hands of _barbarians_...

Vincent was not sure when he had last looked at the sky. He had stopped trying to count the hours with the sun. It was pointless as he didn't know when they were supposed to reach their destination. Elena and Reno had not offered him that tidbit of information. They did not speak much at all anymore. Instead of watching the snow clouds brewing above, Vincent kept his eyes at earth level. He was eager, desperate even, to see Vok on the horizon or just about anything else that wasn't cold, stone walls.

And it was because he was already watching the snow-covered ground that the archmage spotted the tiny shrub poking out from beneath the layer of white. The magic he cast was quick and inconspicuous. Vincent said an apologetic prayer to the plant in his mind as he siphoned the life from it. The revitalization effect when he absorbed the energy was barely noticeable, yet he knew it would sustain him for at least a little longer.

It made him feel a bit guilty that he had taken to using what little he knew about life magic to drain passing plants. The act did nothing to fill his stomach, but it kept his body from falling to the more dangerous levels of weakness. Thanks to his magic, he was probably a little better off than most of the others on this trip. The hunting groups had not had much success. Mostly they brought back edible weeds and berries; on rare occasions they brought meat, but not enough to satisfy and usually not enough for everyone. Need overrode guilt in just about any situation. If he needed to survive by stealing life from other organisms, so be it.

Yet even as he thought this, his mind drifted to the other members of the party. Vincent had noticed that many of the elder soldiers had begun to turn down their shares of food. They traveled silently as their hard, able bodies wasted away. Most of the corpses that had been taken away that morning had been men over forty. They had passed willingly and quietly.

It was selfless. Noble. Vincent wasn't quite sure why their deed struck him so deeply or why his stomach turned at the thought of it, but it made him think of home. In Macaria, where magic was rooted deep into everyday life, the limitations of the body were often taken for granted. It was typical for a mage to grow overly dependent on their magic, using it for every little act and errand. When age began to degenerate their body, sorcery was always a wizard's solution. A cycle of reliance was born; utilizing magic to compensate for their aching bones, letting their form deteriorate to nothing. Too many ancient wizards had he seen confined to levitating chairs, their bodies too shrunken and weak to endure greater teleportation.

The warriors of Bravok were strong. Even the fighters most advanced in years, with their lined faces and snowy hair, had muscled figures sculpted from a lifetime of battle and harsh training. Their bodies were still powerful, their health still good. In another time at another place they would have had four dozen more years to live.

As Vincent plodded through the snow into noon, he thought of brilliant, feeble conjurors wasting away in books and chairs. He contemplated himself, his magic, and how he robbed from other lifeforms to feed his own depleted spirit like the beasts of the dark places. He thought about barbarians starving themselves to save their own.

He was just so tired. Too tired to deny the unfamiliar emotion creeping its way into his chest and far too weary to recognize the shame for what it was.

—

It wasn't often that Sephiroth felt guilt or regret; not because he was incapable of admitting his mistakes, but rather because he simply didn't make mistakes. Period.

He had heard the complaints; his ears were quite keen, keener, apparently, than many of his subjects realized, but he let them talk. In his reign he had found gossip to be quite invaluable to his success as king. Through the words of his subjects he learned the limits of their patience and of all the ways to make them obedient and loyal.

So, no, it didn't bother him that they talked about him behind his back. That, he expected. What irritated him was that he understood and _sympathized_ with them, that he was actually beginning to question _himself_.

When had everything started to go wrong? The attack on Ismena had been nearly flawless. After three years of footsies with Macaria, he had finally decided to strike at the heart of the country with an army of thousands. He had marched on the capital with a group of three hundred under his immediate command. Once the magical barriers around the city had been breached, the siege had gone smoothly. Macaria's regular troops lacked the skill of their mage forces and with the bulk of the sorcerers occupied with defending against airships, cutting through the weaker half of the Macarian army had been a simple task. Sephiroth's party had still been over two hundred-eighty strong when they divided at the castle. He had taken a third of them with him to find the throne room, where they had encountered Macaria's great emperor. Ime Luo had put up a surprising fight, but had been unable to prevent the inevitable.

It should have been over then. It _had_ been over, yet the red-eyed sorcerer had attacked them anyway. Sephiroth hadn't minded at the time; he had never been one to resist fighting's dark allure and he had been fascinated by the way the conjuror had weaved magic. Their battle had been exhilarating, yet too short to satisfy. Sephiroth was eager to exchange blows with the Macarian again and he was used to getting what he wanted. Taking the mage prisoner had been an easy decision for him to make.

But now the monarch's selfishness was beginning to get in the way of his reputation. His subjects were losing faith in him and that was unacceptable.

Although the rockslide had been outside of Sephiroth's control, ultimately the consequences of the event reflected on his leadership. As king of Bravok, it was his responsibility to ensure the success and wellbeing of his warriors; at the moment he was doing poorly. With only a fraction of his original party remaining and the death toll still rising, it was little wonder why his men were not impressed.

Though the ravings of a dead man seemed enough to condemn him, whether or not the adept was truly guilty of sabotaging them was debatable, but his soldiers wanted blood. If Sephiroth wanted to keep them loyal, he needed them happy. It was just that simple.

It wasn't too late. If he got rid of the wizard now he might still be able to rectify the situation, but Sephiroth didn't want to do that, not now while the mage was still interesting...

If he had gone through with making newer, more effective paths through Trava, they could have been in Vok a week ago and he wouldn't be having these problems. The routes they were traveling were barely more than ancient hiking trails. Bravok was a historically isolated country; before Sephiroth had come into power, there had been no reason to forge new trails or trade routes when the ones they had saw so little use. Believing difficult entry into Bravok would put the country at a strategic advantage against potential invasions, the king had put off on making shorter paths. Once he had captured Dyst and its near-endless supply of airships, building new mountain trails had become completely irrelevant. In hindsight, perhaps he had been a touch too eager to push his plan of conquest forward. Sephiroth was certainly seeing the ramifications of his choices now that they had no airships available to them.

He crushed the frustration he was feeling just as it began to surge. The journey was taking its toll on him. Each passing day had cut his fuse that much shorter and he no longer had the patience to dwell on regret or decisions passed. Now he needed to take action, while he still had time.

There was nothing Sephiroth detested more than second-guessing himself. He needed confirmation that he had made the right choices. The Macarian he had taken captive on a whim. If the man was going to undo years of hard work and careful planning, then Sephiroth wasn't going to take any more risks. Tonight he would go to the wizard and if Sephiroth couldn't justify his own interest in the prisoner, the mage would find death on the edge of his blade.

—

"Hey."

The word was accompanied by a gentle nudge and that was all Vincent needed to be roused from his slumber. He had always been a light sleeper. That didn't change no matter how tired he was, unfortunately. A quick glance to his left told him that Elena was also awake, though she seemed to be having a much more difficult time getting up.

"Get dressed quickly. You're being summoned."

The archmage didn't need to ask by whom, though he did wonder why now and for what reason. Sephiroth had not spoken to him since he had given Vincent his cloak. Surely if the man needed to see him he could have at least waited until the sun had risen. Vincent felt like he had only gotten a couple hours of sleep.

Reno tossed Elena her leather vest. She looked up at Reno with an uncomprehending, bleary-eyed stare. _"C'mon, 'Lena, you're coming too."_

Already in full armor, Reno left the tent so they could prepare in peace. Sephiroth was waiting outside. He didn't acknowledge Reno's return, his attention was instead focused upward. Some time during the night the clouds had thinned and the stars had reappeared in the sky for the first time in days. The moon was a thin, white sliver in the darkness and the crescent's weak light caught Sephiroth's face and hair and made him look brighter, paler, like a spirit of the dead.

Reno shifted his weight onto his right leg. He felt uneasy. Whether it was something in the night or because of the man before him, he didn't know, but something was putting him on edge.

No words passed between them. If Sephiroth didn't want to talk then Reno wasn't going to make him. He didn't mind; he wasn't in much of a mood for talking either. Briefly he wondered if it would be rude to yawn in the presence of his king, but in the end his wondering mattered little. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he squinted and his mouth opened wide as he tried to inhale as noiselessly as possible. Vok, it was early. Or maybe it was late. Either way it was autumn in Bravok and he would have preferred to be snuggled beneath his blankets rather than standing around half-awake and half-frozen at this time of night.

Still, Sephiroth had dragged them out of their beds for something he clearly wanted kept private. Reno couldn't help but be curious. He didn't question orders, but he was free to wonder about them. He had a few ideas about how this night could end, none of them were very pleasant...

Elena came out of the tent with the Macarian at her heels. She looked groggy, but was trying her best to seem otherwise in front of Sephiroth. Reno didn't have the heart to tell her that she had somehow managed to put her belt on upside down and backwards. Her good knives were by her non-dominant hand with their pointy ends up where her fingers would try to grab them should she have reason to draw the blades. Reno hoped that she wouldn't need them.

The mage was alert, but rings were forming under his eyes. He was dressed in the clothes he had been given, fur-lined leather and heavy northern wool, as well as the Macarian boots that he had been allowed to keep. Reno might have snickered at how the outfit clashed if another yawned hadn't snuck up on him. The plain, fading shirt and the well-worn pants, both a size or two too large on the wizard, looked odd with the sharp black leather boots that seemed custom-made for the man. And the boots were very nice, plated with bronzed metal engraved with intricate patterns and runes. What sort of position did a man need to have in order to get boots like that in Macaria, Reno wondered. Then again, Macaria was a wealthy country. Maybe all of her citizens could afford to spend on such luxuries.

With the arrival of the captive, Sephiroth turned away from the sky at last. He locked eyes with the caster. His cloak was on the wizard's shoulders again and the wide, furry hood looked ready to swallow the prisoner whole.

Sephiroth smiled. "Good."

The swordsman looked more content than Reno could remember him having looked all week. Even the tone of his voice was relatively light. He sounded almost pleasant. Eager.

Reno was starting to feel uneasy again.

Sephiroth turned and began to walk away from the camp. The others trailed behind him without a word.

—

Brown leather was cool against his skin as Sephiroth's hands encircled his wrists. His hexed bracelets were squeezed between the man's thumbs and index fingers. Sephiroth slid his hands forward and met no resistance. When Vincent broke eye contact with the pale-haired warrior to look down, the bands were off of his wrists yet unbroken and whole in Sephiroth's leather-clad digits. They dropped to the ground noiselessly as the swordsman released him and stepped away.

Vincent inhaled and tilted his head back in a moment of unguarded ecstasy. He could feel again. The Dark in the crevices of the mountain wall, the Earth that stretched beneath him, endlessly deep for however far he followed it, the Water around his boots, cold and hard in their crystal state.

He let his eyelids slip close as he extended his awareness. It had been far too long if he was so easily awed by Sight usually as natural to him as his regular vision. Like a blind man being able to see for the first time, Vincent was entranced. There were so many colors by his feet, in the air, and everywhere else he Looked. Some were vivid, some were opaque while others were weak and translucent. There were blues and golds, purples and reds, colors he could not begin to describe and others that could not decide what they wanted to be and instead shifted constantly through every color in the spectrum.

And before him Sephiroth glowed white hot like a beacon, but he was hazy, as if shrouded behind a veil. Inside the light there were countless hues and shades, all bleeding into one another at varying speeds. Vincent found the sight to be disconcerting and familiar. So many changes that never made it onto the silver warrior's face.

Vincent opened his eyes. Sephiroth was gazing back at him with his vertically slit pupils, a very slight, knowing smirk on his lips.

"Come mage," The swordsman said. "Fight me."

Vincent did not answer him immediately. He looked toward where Reno and Elena were standing. Behind them the path back to camp sloped downwards and disappeared abruptly. They had walked far enough away from the others that no one besides the four of them would be aware of the goings-on of this night.

The path started again on the other side of their battlefield. The party had come through there earlier; Vincent recognized the area from the day's journey. It was as appropriate a place as any for a fight, he supposed. Beneath the snow the ground was rocky, but it was mostly flat and went on that way for a decent length in all directions. The mountain walls enclosing them also significantly decreased the chances of an Ignir-styled death. No tricks then. He and Sephiroth would actually have to fight each other. Vincent allowed his dark anticipation to fill him.

"What of my robes and armor?" The archmage was surprised when his voice came out rough from disuse and quieter than he had intended.

Sephiroth heard him regardless. "Afraid you won't be able to beat me without your enchanted equipment?" Vincent narrowed his eyes and the king's smirk deepened. "If you want to make this _fair_, fine."

Sephiroth turned away and began to put space between them. Vincent felt mildly offended as he watched him go. The green-eyed warrior unfastened his arm guards as he walked, paying the sorcerer little to no mind as he went. He would dare to turn his back on his opponent? The spellcaster couldn't decide if Sephiroth was stupid or if he should be worried that the man was so confident.

Sephiroth stopped at twenty paces and turned to face Vincent again. He took his time to remove his pauldrons and the plate armor he wore over his pants. When he reached up to unstrap his last piece of equipment, Vincent noticed for the first time that the swordmaster wore a simple cuirass made of hardened leather. It struck the wizard as odd that Sephiroth would weigh himself down with plate on his arms and legs, yet not bother to reinforce the protection on his chest. The torso held a large majority of the body's most vital organs, certainly it was more worthy of extra protection than a limb. It seemed intentional, an open invitation. Vincent decided that stupidity and arrogance could occasionally be one and the same.

As the final piece of armor fell to the snow, Sephiroth's masamune appeared in his left hand. "There." He slid easily into his stance. "Now it's fair. My sword, your magic."

Vincent was tired and his stomach was empty, but being able to feel magic in its fullness again charged him with heady euphoria. He could have told himself he didn't want this, but he would have been lying. Besides brooding on his kingdom and his emperor, Vincent had spent much of his time thinking about Sephiroth and their next fight. He had known it would be inevitable because he _needed_ the rematch. He was the Archmage, commander of Macaria's mage forces and high wizard of the emperor's court. He did not lose to barbarian warlords.

Vincent made the first move. The snow around them was thick, so it didn't take much to reshape the snow at Sephiroth's feet into a deadly, frozen stalagmite. The swordsman sidestepped it easily, but he was followed. Ice came up from the ground like knives and Sephiroth was forced to run from the spell by leaping into the air. He hovered low over the ground while the snow climbed up and turned to needles as it tried to meet him.

The blaze that came towards Vincent was meant to disrupt the mage's concentration, but it served a second purpose by dissolving the ice spell and melting away much of the snow on the ground. Vincent didn't bother moving; the fire disintegrated before it reached him and he retaliated with a nearly invisible blast of air magic.

Sephiroth sensed the sharp wind moving towards him and summoned a barrier. Seven fires came to his call just as the defensive spell settled into place and he targeted Vincent with them immediately. The blade of air collided with the barrier silently and without violence. The gale slid past the monarch harmlessly and rejoined the natural breeze blowing around him.

The white swordsman's magical barrier was not visible to the naked eye, but Vincent had comfortably layered his Sight on top of his eyesight. He could clearly See the dully glowing energy bent into a wall around the warrior. Sephiroth was on the defensive. It was not wise to give up one's offense against a mage and now Vincent would teach Sephiroth why.

The Bravokian's fire came in fast like a rain of arrows, but the flames turned in their trajectories with a motion of Vincent's left hand. As the spell was reflected back towards its caster, Vincent made another gesture with his right to dispel Sephiroth's barrier. The shield splintered with a noise like shattering crystals.

Sephiroth moved quickly, but he couldn't dodge all of the flaming bolts. One scorched his shirt and caught him in the shoulder and another burned deep into his chest, but he grit his teeth and bore the pain. Then the earth rolled beneath him and he remembered that he had to keep moving. He was running when the ground was swept from under him and together they ascended, higher and higher, until they came down finally and Sephiroth hit the unforgiving stone of the Trava mountains.

–

_"Oooooo."_ Reno had his arms crossed over his chest casually. _"I'm pretty sure he broke something."_ The tsunami of soil and rock fell away to reveal Sephiroth face down in a mound of dirt, clutching his chest. _"Yeah, he definitely broke something."_

Elena had her eyebrows drawn low over her eyes in anger even as she winced. _"Why didn't he attack? He should have been going in, but he just ran away and let the mage have his way with him!"_ Her voice was full of disbelief.

_"Testing him maybe,"_ Reno replied with a shrug. _"But what's the point? He already knows the mage is good."_

Elena peered over at Reno and saw him grinning. _"Why are you smiling?"_

_"What, I can't enjoy watching my boss get his ass beat?"_ Reno tried not to revel in Elena's undisguised horror. _"Don't worry, 'Lena, I think Sephiroth's had enough of getting tossed into mountains. See? He's getting up right now."_

–

Vincent felt a vicious sort of pleasure as he watched Sephiroth recover. He could appreciate caution, but runaway, especially in this particular fight, was a touch disrespectful. Nonetheless, Vincent could tell that the other man was stronger than he had been in their initial clash. His speed was greater, his reactions faster, his spells more powerful. The skill the Bravokian was displaying now was just enough to trump what he had shown Vincent in the throne room.

The brunet didn't stop the smile that spread across his face. He knew this game. He had been playing it all of his life. One of them would lead and push the limits, the other would try to match the first, and they would go on like that until one of them could not go any further and the more powerful one between them was revealed. It had been many years since Vincent last had someone entertaining to play with. It had been so long he didn't even know what his limits were anymore.

Sephiroth was staring at him from beneath his disheveled bangs. He was grinning.

Vincent was beginning to feel excited in spite of himself.

The earth rose up before him suddenly, but Vincent calmed it with a thought. When the spell had subsided, the mage could see that Sephiroth had disappeared. He had expected as much. Rather than try to guess where the swordsman would make his reappearance, Vincent conjured a powerful gale to flow in a tight circle around him. When Sephiroth came in from his right, the masamune sliced through the delicate outer winds with ease, but was forced to a halt several inches from Vincent's waist. Vincent pushed the blade away from his body and reversed the direction of the spell so that the sword was pulled towards him, but missed him completely. When Sephiroth had been drawn in close enough, the conjurer studied him with a critical eye.

It was immensely satisfying to see the man's usually smug, immaculate face streaked with blood and dirt. Vincent's mid-battle elation urged him to speak, "this new look suits you."

Sephiroth made an amused sound low in his throat. "Does it? You know, mage, you don't talk much, but when you do..." He freed his sword from the wind spell with surprisingly little effort and knocked Vincent onto his back. His blade came down in a flash, but pierced through snow instead of flesh.

Vincent was coming back into existence a number of feet away, making fluid motions with his hands as he conjured lightning. Sephiroth spotted him quickly and started sprinting towards him. A great fork of lightning came out of the stormless sky and missed. The swordmaster was still rather swift when injured, Vincent realized, so he channeled the following lightning spell through his fingers instead. Sephiroth summoned a barrier, but Vincent shattered it before it came into being and the caster's magic struck the other man dead in the chest.

Sephiroth stopped in his tracks as the electricity seized him. Even after the spell had faded, he could still feel it coursing through his body. His limbs wouldn't respond to him properly, but at least he was standing.

Vincent was impressed. Sephiroth had taken the brunt of the spell rather well without his armor or sorcery to protect him. His natural resistance to magic was much greater than the wizard had anticipated. Vincent would just have to hit him harder next time.

Sephiroth was ready when the next arc of lightning came curving from the sorcerer's hands. His legs felt like jelly, so he rolled out of the way to avoid it. By the time he was back on his feet, his legs were feeling mostly normal again, so he made a beeline for the Macarian. With a sudden burst of speed he was behind the spellcaster, but Vincent remembered their first fight well and was ready to send him flying backwards with a look.

The king was unrelenting in his pressure. He had barely touched the ground with his feet when he was gone again and bearing down on Vincent's left. Before the wizard could react, Sephiroth hopped back. A feint. Then the gray swordsman lunged, this time for real, from the same direction and Sephiroth reminded Vincent just how ridiculous the length of his sword was.

Where the oodachi cut the mage's side it had made barely a scratch, so Sephiroth swooped in closer and savored how easily his masamune sliced through the slender body. When he had reached Vincent, four of the six feet of his sword were covered in Macarian blood. Just one more step and he would cut through the man's spinal column and then Vincent would really be in trouble.

Sephiroth smiled pleasantly at Vincent and spoke to him in a gentle, self-satisfied whisper, "I think I won this one."

It was really quite admirable how quiet the mage managed to keep himself, the King of Bravok thought. He had uttered a small gasp when the brand had pierced him, but he was nearly silent now. The brunet's breaths grew shallow as more of his blood spilled out onto his borrowed clothes and steadily dyed them the color of his eyes.

When Vincent's knees started to fail him, he latched onto Sephiroth for support. The swordsman must have been feeling generous because he slipped the arm that wasn't holding the blade buried in Vincent's side around the caster's waist to keep him from collapsing into the snow. The battle had been fun, but Vincent's weariness was catching up with him now and his fading adrenaline could only do so much for the pain.

The archmage was no healer. He had dabbled in all sorts of disciplines in his studies and he knew enough about life magic to cure most wounds one might obtain on the battlefield, but Sephiroth had cut through half of his torso. He would die from blood loss before his magic could knit a gash like this. Gods, how he hated the man, but he was too exhausted to be properly livid. If he had to die here...

The mage's sable head met Sephiroth's chest. Heavy eyelids fluttered closed until inky lashes brushed ivory cheeks. The masamune vanished from its master's hand. Sephiroth felt warm everywhere the Macarian's limp weight touched him. As the feeling spread and intensified, the king stood rooted in the snow. Underneath the wizard's cheek, the swordsman's heart was pounding, hard and steady at first and then quick and erratic, as dark, scorching energy encompassed it. The magic moved fast, rapidly slithering into Sephiroth's lungs before skittering upward to capture his throat.

He couldn't breathe. His chest was heaving vainly as he tried, but the air he was inhaling was not going where it needed to. The sound of his irregular pulse would not get out of his ears. Sephiroth's chest was in agony, his broken ribs were screaming and his heart throbbed uncontrollably in time to some hellish beat. He only noticed his legs had buckled when his knees met the frozen ground and he felt as if he had landed instead on broken glass. He barely noticed the spellcaster, still unconscious in his lap.

Was this what dying was like? Sephiroth scarcely had the presence of mind to cast Esuna and half a dozen other curative spells to try to free himself from his suffering. The curse the mage had set on him was unaffected. He had never been this close to death before. He felt helpless, weaker than he had ever felt in his life. He despised frailty, yet the experience was somehow... thrilling in its newness. Here on the brink, approaching death felt akin to watching military plans unfold. Waiting with muscles tight with anticipation to see how one's careful scheming would fair against the opponent's unknown strategies.

As his vision started to blacken, Sephiroth threaded his gloved hands through the wizard's hair. He focused his senses on the brunet through the pain and let the mage's presence keep him grounded as he cast a healing spell. The magic was instantaneous, but weak. He cast another before the first one ended and he managed to conjure another three before the pounding in his ears grew quiet.

Vincent stirred. His bleeding had slowed, he noticed, and he was still alive, so he couldn't be completely drained yet. It took him a moment longer to detect the curative magic lingering in the air around him. He felt annoyed. _Fine._ Relieved, irritated. Furious. Satisfied. He conceded. _Fine._

His body was so heavy with fatigue he couldn't move his lips or his fingers. With some effort he ordered his thoughts and recalled his hex. The dark magic responded, immediately retreating from the unmoving body beneath him. He was not bleeding as profusely anymore, so he weaved life magic into his gaping side and, almost as an afterthought, let the spell flow into Sephiroth as well. With some luck—meaning, if Reno and Elena didn't kill him first—he would be healed in a few hours.

Vincent had been a teenager when he had last acquired a sever injury like this. As he lay in Sephiroth's arms, he thought of another bright-eyed, fair-haired swordsman. Too tired to resist any longer, the archmage let the steady beating against his cheek lull him to sleep.

—

Sephiroth opened his eyes and saw faded brown cloth poised above him. Below him there was fur; he could feel it in his hands. Someone had taken his gloves off while he had slept.

When he sat up, he felt sluggish and sick. His arms were like lead weights trying to drag him back down and he was tempted to let them because the tent was spinning and it was making his head throb. His eyes were sore and his neck was stiff. His throat was dry, but he relished in the sensation of air flowing into his chest and expanding it.

_"How are you feeling?"_

_"Terrible,"_ Sephiroth replied honestly. _"But better than I was, relatively speaking."_ He looked over at Elena. _"Did you use any healing items on me?"_

She shook her head. _"No. There was magic working on you, so I figured it wouldn't be worth it."_

_"Good."_ No reason to waste provisions on those who didn't need it. _"How is the mage?"_

Elena was sitting between the two beds. She scooted back to give Sephiroth a better view of the sleeping Macarian. _"His wound has healed. He'll need a white mage if he wants the scar removed, though."_ After Sephiroth had skewered Vincent, she had been unsure what the king wanted done with the wizard. She had chosen to do nothing, letting the magic run its course and stitch Vincent back together.

Sephiroth crawled to Elena's side. When he was within arm's reach of the sorcerer, he lifted Vincent's blood-soaked shirt so that he could see the newly healed laceration for himself.

The dark scar began below the man's sternum and curved down to his waist, where the edge of the masamune had struck initially. The swordsman traced the line with a naked finger. He knew that the scar would continue behind the mage in the same way it had at the front, starting at Vincent's side and moving up until it stopped near the center of his back just before his spine.

Sephiroth smirked, satisfied.

Beneath the scar Sephiroth had made, there was another long, thin blemish. It went almost straight across the mage's abdomen and was faded with age. Though the scar looked nice against the wizard's pale flesh, the king found it to be much less pleasing than the mark he had gifted the sorcerer with.

Sephiroth stood. _"Where is Reno?"_

_"He's leading the others."_ Elena got to her feet as well and led the way out of the tent. _"I would say we're about four hours behind them."_

Outside they were greeted by three yellow birds. One positive side effect of the high death toll, Sephiroth mused, was that there were a number of extra chocobos available for use.

_"Then we have some catching up to do."_

—

Vincent hated these damnable bracelets. Once again his magic was contained and he was forced to make an effort to detect the energies and auras around him. His Sight was so weak when he wore these silly things. He would never admit it, but it made him feel vulnerable and restless.

At least his regular sight had been given a change in scenery. They had finally entered the Valley. Though the party had encountered many storms on the way here, it seemed the Valley of Vok had managed to avoid the worst of the snowfall. It was strange to see such a place nestled within the bleak Trava mountains. Besides a few small patches of white, the vale was all rock, green, and wildflowers.

The wildflowers were beautiful. There were so many kinds Vincent had never seen before. There were tiny purple ones that grew in bunches, flushed blossoms thin like the tall grass in the savannas of northern Macaria, bizarre orange flowers that reminded him of little fires, and flowers with wide, blue petals the color of night approaching. It looked nothing like Macaria, but seeing such diverse vegetation made him think of roaming in the jungles back home.

Vincent traced the river they were following with his eyes. The water was calm now, but when the snow from the mountains came down he was sure that would change. Up farther ahead near the bank of the river, the city of Vok was a dark blotch in a sea of color.

The archmage was feeling equal amounts of relief and dread. He had survived the journey, but what would await him in the heart of his captor's homeland? As they grew closer to the city, Vincent's sense of foreboding worsened and his relief was replaced with incredulity.

When the returning troops passed through Vok's gates, Vincent rode with them, looking around at his surroundings blankly.

This was it?

Some of the native Bravokians were peering at him curiously, but most were combing through the soldiers with apprehensive eyes. Vincent ignored them in favor of taking in the narrow paved streets and the humble wooden houses.

The wizard continued to stare dubiously. He was finding it increasingly hard to believe that this town, which was exactly what it was compared to the city of Ismena, could be the capital of the country that had taken over the Western Continent. Surely this little village could not be the home of the great Bravokian warriors of legend.

As they proceeded through the busy streets, their party grew smaller as more people broke from the group to return to their waiting families. Sephiroth remained at the head, leading them to the stone castle that loomed from the other side of the city. Reno and Elena also stayed; the pair rode alongside Vincent, flanking him on both sides.

When they passed through the center of Vok, Vincent's attention was drawn to a tall statue. The sculpture was of an imposing woman with squared shoulders and a strong face. Her skin was all the colors of the Travan walls and her neutral expression had been chiseled by a delicate stonesmith. The same artist had carved her long hair curly and wild so that it fell over her face and shadowed eyes that reflected light like jewels, their color indiscernible. One of Bravok's master craftsmen had forged the statue a set of well-kept plate armor, fur-lined and silver. One gauntleted hand held a heavy axe in an unyielding grip while the other lay tenderly on the head of a young goat. As the group continued around to the back of the sculpture, Vincent could see that the woman stood on cultivated soil pierced by an assortment of weapons. Among them he spotted polearms, swords, and daggers; all of which looked completely functional.

There was no doubt in Vincent's mind that this must be the woman for whom the city had been named. It was not clear in Bravokian legend if Vok had been god or mortal. Vincent found that the statue didn't make the truth any clearer.

After passing the lady Vok, they arrived at the castle quickly. They were greeted by several attendants at the gate who freed them of their mounts. Once within the slate colored walls, the group of soldiers fractured further.

_"Elena, find the two Macarian servant girls and have them attend to the mage,"_ Sephiroth said to the girl as he made his way towards a black-haired man waiting off to the side patiently.

_"Yes, sir."_ Elena bowed respectfully. Her eyes lingered on the king and his companion for a moment longer before she signaled for Vincent to follow her.

They moved swiftly through the castle hallways. The captive Macarian tried to take in what he could of the sights while still keeping close to Elena. Rich burgundy carpets, expansive wall murals, the distinctive metal workings of the country's famous craftsmen. The place wasn't as extravagant as the Ismenan castle, but it had a quiet elegance that Vincent could appreciate.

_"You two,"_ they had entered a hectic kitchen and Elena had to speak loudly in Bravokii over the noise. She approached two brunettes engrossed in carving a large beast. _"The king has requested that you wait on this man."_ She nodded her head in Vincent's direction.

Vincent locked gazes with the pair. The dark-haired one stared at him with her mouth agape and her eyes wide in alarm. The other looked nothing short of horrified.

_"Archmage!"_ the second woman rasped in Macarian. She raked over him fiercely with her green eyes, as if not sure she should believe what she was seeing. _"What are you doing here?"_

_"Priestess,"_ he greeted Gainsborough. And then to Lockhart who still had her mouth hanging open, _"Lieutenant."_ Vincent paused for a moment as he wondered how best to explain his situation. _"I suppose I'm here for the same reason you are."_

Neither woman looked satisfied with his response. It was then that Tifa decided to speak, _"I think we have much to discuss, Archmage."_ She ushered him out of the kitchen. Aeris trailed close behind them. Vincent noticed that Elena had left them sometime during their reunion. _"First, we find you a room. And then we will talk. In private."_

—

_"Tseng,"_ Sephiroth outstretched his hand out to the leader of his Turks as he greeted him. _"Anything to report?"_

_"Plenty, Sir."_ The other man handed him a thick pile of parchment. _"But the Council has called a meeting. They would like to see you. Immediately."_

Sephiroth didn't bother to conceal his annoyance as he scanned the documents he had been given. _"Of course they couldn't wait until after I had eaten,"_ the monarch muttered. He began to make his way to the meeting room slowly. Tseng fell into step next to him.

_"All of the airships you sent to Dyst arrived without difficulty,"_ the Turk supplied when he saw Sephiroth reading the letter from the fleet's captain.

_"Good."_ The swordmaster moved on to the next missive.

_"Congratulations on your victory, by the way."_

The pale king smiled slightly as he shuffled through the papers. _"This is far from over."_

Tseng inclined his head in agreement. _"Hojo left shortly after we got word of what happened in Macaria. There's also a letter from him in there somewhere."_

_"Hojo?"_

_"He was the one who showed our smithies how to properly fuse armor with materia. I introduced you briefly a few years back, when he first arrived."_

_"That technology turned out to be quite useful."_ The armor had served them very well against the Macarian sorcerers. Sephiroth turned to Tseng. _"Any word on where he went off to?"_ It might be a good idea to keep a mind like Hojo's around.

_"He didn't say."_

Sephiroth hummed, disappointed. _"Was he paid well at least?"_

Tseng smiled. _"I think he was quite happy with what he was given."_

They came to a stop at wide double doors much too quickly for Sephiroth's liking. The King of Bravok steeled himself for what was to come. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with the Council right now.

He pushed the doors open and swept into the chamber. The four members of the council were already inside waiting. They sat in their usual spots around the large round table at the center of the room. Sephiroth's seat was empty at the edge of the table farthest from the door. There were many more seats than there were council members, so Tseng invited himself into the meeting and slipped into the chair to Sephiroth's left as the swordsman lowered himself into his own.

In the first year of Sephiroth's reign, the meeting room had been aptly renamed the "war room", as it was where the monarch came to concoct military strategies. On top of the circular table there was a great strip of cloth with a map of the world drawn on it. Wooden figurines of airships, soldiers, and whatever else the king needed for his plans littered the surface of the map. Both the map and the miniatures were well made and full of clever details.

Tseng had once told Sephiroth that the artist who had drawn the map and the sculptor who had whittled the little statues were the same person. The dark-haired man really had a gift for scouting talent around the castle.

Heidegger and Scarlet were sitting together a few chairs away from Tseng. Scarlet had her elbows propped up on the table over the Wutaian Sea. _"Our great king returns at last. Tell me, Your Majesty,"_ it was truly a wonder how the woman could take his titles and make them sound like poison, _"what happened to all of your men? If I'm not mistaken, you left with about three hundred."_

_"Has news of my failings spread so quickly?"_ Knowing Scarlet, she had probably had a scout ready to make a headcount of his troops the instant they had been spotted crossing the Valley.

_"We've had more news of your successes."_ Reeve sat almost directly across from Sephiroth. He had his arms buried in the sleeves of his indigo robes. _"I think congratulations are in order."_

_"Macaria,"_ Palmer said gleefully from his seat between Reeve and the king. _"Finally she has been caught beneath our banner."_ Sephiroth really enjoyed it when the Council celebrated his victories like they deserved some part in them. His green eyes flickered toward Palmer with thinly veiled disdain. Being placed on the Council by a Bravokian king was a very high honor. Usually it meant that the one being appointed to the Council was being recognized for their intellect, superior combat skills, or contributions to Bravok. Palmer's nomination was such a mystery to Sephiroth.

Scarlet was not going to let the meeting get back on track so easily. They had not even begun and yet she already seemed determined to make the gathering go on for as long as possible. _"But at what price? Three years is such a long time, just to capture a single country—"_

_"Scarlet,"_ Sephiroth interrupted, fed up with the blonde's rambling. Gods, he needed food. _"Later we will thoroughly discuss my shortcomings, but for now,"_ he leaned back into his cushioned chair and made himself comfortable, _"how about we get this meeting started?"_


End file.
